The Touch of Winter
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Something strange had happened to Narnia. While the passage of seasons in Archenland remained as normal, the lands of the north appeared to be locked in eternal winter. Something had happened. Something terrible.


**The Touch of Winter**

Prince Richard of Archenland rose a fist and brought his army to a halt. Here, overlooking the border between Narnia and his home country, it felt like he was straddling two worlds.

He knew of the stories of course – of Frank and Helen, who were said to have come from another world entirely. They who had been there at the dawn, who had lived in the lands of the north before leading their people southward. To establish the castle of Anvard and the realm of Archenland. Centuries had passed since that time, and Richard put little stock in the stories, even if he could trace back his lineage as far as Frank and Helen themselves. But still, mounted upon his horse, alongside his brother, Prince Henry, he couldn't help but wonder if the stories had some truth to them. Because again…

"It's like it's another world," Henry murmured.

Richard smirked. "There might be hope for you yet brother."

Henry looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Great minds think alike."

"…I don't-"

"Forget it." He brought down his hand. "Come. Let's see what awaits us." Richard brought his horse forward, and with him, 500 men of Archenland. Not an army, but enough to counter whatever got in its way. He hoped.

As the company moved forward, Richard kept his gaze fixated on the trees ahead. Here, it was summer, his horse's hooves making soft footfalls upon the grass. But looking to the north, it was clear that something was very wrong, or at least, very different. The skies were overcast, with a hard barrier between them and the blues under which he rode, a straight line dividing one sky from another. A forest of pines was at the border, all of them covered in snow, as surely as the ground beneath them. Four years, Narnia had been like this. Three years since King Adin had sent scouts to discover what had befallen the northern lands, and consequently, three years since they had seen them. Stories filled the ears of children as to what lay in the magical lands to the north – tales of fauns and dryads, of talking animals and dwarfs, of centaurs, spirits, and everything in-between, but whatever the truth that existed in them, none had come south to share tales of what had happened in their land. Which, Richard supposed, led to three options – that either they didn't exist, or they didn't want to leave, or they couldn't.

_Which is why you send your two sons at the head of an army to find out father, _Richard thought. He kept his horse steady, who let out a nervous whinny as they approached the tree line. _How confident of you. _He looked at Henry, a look of unease etched upon his features. _Or foolish._

His horse let out another whine as they drew closer, and Richard couldn't blame it. There was a chill in the air as they approached the border – even if Narnia was locked in some unnatural winter, even if the snows hadn't spread southward, the reach of its cold certainly had. For a moment, he glanced up at the sky – cloven in two between blue and grey.

"Brother."

But only for a moment, as he saw what Henry had pointed to. The trees up ahead. They were moving.

"Hold." He rose his fist again. The force came to a halt – he dared glanced back at it. To his men-at-arms, many of whom he supposed would have been happy to stay home in lands of summer. To the knights of Archenland, clad in full plate armour. To one of them who rode up to him, carrying the banner of the kingdom. Raising his visor, he recognised the man as Sir Celtic.

"Orders, my lord?"

_So quick on the uptake. _He gripped his mount's reigns as he watched the tree line. "Set up the men. Spears in front, archers behind." He saw Celtic linger. "Go."

"My lord, you should-"

"Are the trees moving, Sir Celtic?"

The knight stared at him.

"Are they moving?" he asked. "Is this magic? Or does an army of the north march upon us?"

A flight of birds erupted from the trees as if to answer the question.

"We are men of Archenland. We do not retreat from the south, and we do not from the north. Whatever madness descends upon us, we will face it together."

"My lord, that…" Celtic trailed off. He just sat on his horse, staring. And seeing what had emerged from the tree line, Richard couldn't blame him.

It was an army. Fair enough. He'd faced armies before, and his armour had the dents to prove it. But those had been armies of fellow men. This was an army of monsters. Creatures with the heads of bulls and bodies of humans. Giants of single eye, over six feet tall. Dwarfs, black of beard and black of armour, wielding axes of all shapes and sizes. And at the flanks, as if serving as cavalry, wolves, of coats grey, brown, and black. Not an army of men, Richard reflected, an army of monsters. And at its head, upon a chariot of gold and silver, drawn by two bears of white fur and yellow fang, was its leader. A woman clad in white cloak and shining armour. Whose lips were the colour of blood, and her skin as white as the trail of ice her chariot was leaving behind it. She, who might have been the most beautiful woman Richard had ever seen…and yet also the most terrifying.

It didn't help that by his count, the woman's army outnumbered his 2:1. And seeing the size of some of the creatures there, if the numbers had been reversed, Richard couldn't have been sure of victory. He glanced back at his army, and seeing some of the spearmen take involuntary steps back, he could only guess that they had reached the same conclusion.

"Henry," he murmured.

His brother rode up to him, fear etched on his features.

"Go to the rear-guard," he said. "Whatever happens this day, you will tell our father."

"But-"

"Now."

Henry looked like he wanted to say something, but nevertheless nodded and spurred his horse off. Richard turned his gaze to Celtic. "Can I count on your knights to keep the men in order?"

Celtic said nothing. His gaze was alternating between the two armies, Henry, Richard, and the woman up ahead. She who'd brought her chariot to a halt, and with a raised fist, the march of her army.

"Well?"

He nodded. "Yes, my lord."

"Good." Richard turned his gaze back to the woman, who was still at her chariot. Just staring. "I think I might like your company."

"My lord, you should-"

"Tell me not what I should do Celtic, I have father for that." He dismounted. "Come. If I am to speak prince to queen, I would appreciate you at my side."

Celtic, after a moment, dismounted as well. Richard looked ahead and saw the white woman do the same, handing the reigns of her sled to a dwarf.

_So you know how to play the game as well, _Richard thought. He began walking across the grass, leading his horse along, and sure enough, so did the white woman. Her army remained in place, save for a single wolf who scampered up to her before walking in sync.

_And so the game begins._

The two men kept walking. As they did so, Richard scoured her army, looking not so much as what was there (monsters of all shapes and sizes), but what wasn't – banners of any kind. Perhaps they called her queen, perhaps they called her witch, perhaps they called her Tash, for all he knew. But whatever control she had over the army, it seemed apparent to Richard that it went beyond mere heraldry. Coming within ten pacesof her, as six feet, eight hooves, and four paws met upon the grass, Richard fought the urge to gape.

The woman was tall. Gigantic even. He'd heard tales of giants, of brutes from lands further north than even Narnia, but if the woman declared she was a giant, he supposed he'd have no trouble believing it. But after a moment, that wasn't what bothered him. Rather, it was her face. Beautiful, true. But her blood-red lips were locked in a sneer, her dark eyes going from Richard, to Celtic, then back to Richard. He had the sense that she considered them beneath her. And given her height, given her army, given her beauty…maybe they were.

"Do you speak?" she asked eventually.

Richard cleared his throat. "I am-"

"So you do. Good. Obviously you are not idiots and are capable of listening."

The wolf let out a snort and Richard frowned – if he didn't' know better, he could swear that the wolf was trying not to laugh. Nevertheless, he returned his gaze to the woman. "I've seen your army," he said. "Most…esoteric."

"And I saw yours as soon as you crossed the River Adamant," the woman said.

"How so?" Celtic asked.

She gave him a withering look. "Little birds," she said.

"Little birds?"

"Little birds," the wolf repeated. "Birds will work for crumbs, and they serve as excellent scouts."

Celtic stared. Richard stared. The wolf let out a growl and turned to Richard. "Do I scare you, son of Adam? In your mind's eye, do you see my fangs tearing out your throat?"

The woman chuckled. "A gratifying image Fulgrim, but I value your fangs more than your tongue."

The wolf turned his gaze to the horses. "I need my tongue for tasting my queen."

"So you do. But what you taste this day…" She turned her gaze to Richard. "That depends on you."

Richard, still coming to terms with the fact that he'd heard a wolf talk, dumbly nodded.

"My terms are thus," the woman said. "Narnia is mine. It has been so for the past four years, and will remain so unto the ending of the world. If you accept this, then Archenland remains yours until it collapses as all mortal kingdoms do. Deny me, and the winds of winter will cover your land."

"Winter," Richard murmured. He looked at the clouds above, both black and white. "This is your doing?"

"He thinks, my queen," the wolf sneered. "The hairless ape thinks!"

_What's an ape?_

"These are my terms," the woman said. "Deny me, and you deny your men your lives."

"Richard frowned – the game was being played, but if what the woman said was true, then they were higher stakes than he had so far encountered. His heart told him to flee. His mind bid him stay, and murmur, "one army against another," he said. "Are you so certain of victory?"

The woman smirked. "Absolutely."

"And you-"

"Little prince, I have commanded armies a hundred times this size, and laid waste to entire kingdoms. If I so desired, I could march on Anvard and put it to the sword in a single day."

"And yet you haven't," Richard said. "Which suggests that either you know mercy, or know that your supposed days of sacking kingdoms are far gone."

"Mercy," the woman whispered. "You speak of mercy? Very well. Ensure that no son or daughter of Archenland enters the lands to the north, and your people will know mercy."

Richard frowned. Stay south of the border, or face war. He glanced at his army, then at the woman's. The insanity of talking wolves and bear-driven chariots aside, he supposed that that wasn't too unfair a request. Archenlanders were generally happy to stay in Archenland, and if they weren't in Archenland, they were in Calormen or on the eastern sea. On the other hand, if he acquiesced to the woman's demands, just like that, more demands would come. Archenland and Calormen had played the game for centuries, and if he broke the rules now…

"Well?" the woman asked. "Do you recognise me as queen of Narnia?"

Richard went to speak, but-

"Queen of Narnia?"

Celtic beat him to it.

"Queen of Narnia," the knight repeated. "Narnia has only ever known one queen."

"Celtic, what are you doing?" Richard murmured.

"Queen Helen was the first queen of Narnia, with King Frank at his side," Celtic continued. "We are their sons and daughters, whereas you…what even are you?"

The woman glared at him.

"You have no right to declare that we may not pass further northward," Celtic continued.

"Celtic, enough."

"And a crown on your head does not make you queen, no matter what you claim," the knight continued.

"Enough, Celtic!"

"I dare say that you aren't even human, with your-"

When it happened, it happened quickly.

The woman reached for something in her cloak. Celtic went to draw his sword, but the woman beat him to it, drawing out some kind of short-staff and pointing it at him. What happened next happened quickly, but to Richard, it felt as long as an age of the world. Because when the woman pointed it at Celtic, to the horror of both prince and knight, the former began to turn to stone. Skin, hair, armour, boots…he could see Celtic's face contort in horror and agony, before what was left was nothing more than a man, reaching for his blade.

Richard reached for his blade as well, but the wolf was too quick. He pounced on the prince, hitting him with such force that he fell on the grass and dropped his sword. He drew a dagger, but the wolf bit his arm, the prince screaming as fang cut through flesh and muscle and bone. The wolf withdrew its fangs, dripping with blood, before going for the throat and-

"Enough, Fulgrim."

Both wolf and man looked up at the woman.

"The prince's toys are playing soldier."

A horn was blowing. The knights were charging to come to the aid of their lord. Under their banners, the warriors of Archenland marched forward, the tips of their spears shining in the sun. And behind them, bowmen notched their arrows, ready to let loose.

_Fall back, _Richard thought desperately. _Fall back!_

He watched the woman mount her chariot and raise a fist. The wolf, still above him, let out a howl that echoed across forest and field. One matched by the army of wolves at the flanks, and along the line, the cries of creatures foul and fierce.

"Keep him alive Fulgrim," the woman murmured. "I want him to live long enough to see his people die."

Richard tried to get up, but Fulgrim sank his fangs into his leg. He let out a cry, not only for himself, but for everyone, as the woman dropped her fist and led her army into battle. He cried, he wept, he prayed, but no help was forthcoming.

"Take solace, son of Adam," Fulgrim murmured. "It will all be over soon."

* * *

If nothing else, Fulgrim hadn't been a liar. The battle had ended quickly and horribly, and with the wolf's fangs around his neck, Richard had been forced to watch all of it.

It wasn't just that his army had been outnumbered, but rather, outmatched, forced to fight an enemy they'd known nothing about. He'd seen wolves knock his knights off their horses before tearing out their throats. He'd seen the bull-headed creatures swing their axes, killing trios of men in a single strike. The one-eyed creatures had been wounded by sword, spear, and arrow, and had still kept fighting, shrugging off wounds that would have killed a normal man. And in the centre of it all, the woman in her chariot – with her staff, she'd turned anyone who got close to her to stone, and with a blade, defended herself from their attacks. Now, all that was left were the spoils of war. Buzzards circled around in the sky, above the dead and dying, waiting for their feast to begin. Or what would be left for them after the feast, as winged monsters descended from above to feed on the bodies of the dead. The tattered banners of Archenland fluttered in the winter's breeze, while blood stained the grass.

And he'd watched it. All of it. Not for the woman, but for his men. They had fought for him. Died for him. He owed it to them to behold their passing. To etch this horror into his mind, so that someday, eventually, he could avenge them. So when the woman walked up to him, accompanied by a hag with a line of fingers as a necklace, carrying a small bag, he met her gaze.

"That was enjoyable," she murmured, as she wiped the blood from her blade – a weapon made entirely out of stone, as far as Richard could see. "Long has it been since I tasted battle. Longer still since I was on the winning side."

Richard spat at her, and Fulgrim let out a growl. The woman, for her part, simply smirked.

"I trust this has been an apt demonstration of what will befall your people if my terms are not met?"

Richard just sat there, glaring at her. The woman sighed and looked to the hag. "Yaga?"

With a grin, the old crone tossed the bag in front of Richard. And seeing the head tumble out of it, he screamed.

_Henry…_

His brother's dead eyes looked up at him. And finally, the heir to Archenland looked away from the slaughter.

"He fought well," the woman said. "My warriors say that his men begged him to leave, but he was so desperate to stay and fight. Why, he killed five of my wolves before his neck met an appointment with the butcher's axe."

Richard scrambled to his feet, desperate to do something, anything, to the monster who stood above him. But it came to naught, as Fulgrim bit into his leg – not so hard as to cut through his flesh, but hard enough to get him to fall into the grass.

"I'll kill you," the prince wept. The woman knelt down in front of him, and he met her eyes. "I swear I'll kill you."

"So many have said that," the woman whispered. "They're all dust and ashes now. Or stone statues, I suppose." Her gaze lingered on Celtic. "A shame. I would have loved him in the courtyard, but it's a long way back to my castle, and I would prefer my subjects to forget that your misbegotten spawn ever existed." She looked back at Richard and cupped his chin in her hands. Her gloved hands, that couldn't protect him from the chill that emanated from them.

"I will let you live this day, Richard, son of Adin, heir of Frank, son of Adam. You will have a horse and be given safe passage to Anvard. You will tell your father what happened this day, and if he is wise, he will ensure that his people keep to the south." She gave his cheeks a squeeze. "Can you do that for me?"

"Go to Hell," Richard spat.

"Hell." Something danced in the woman's eyes, something that was not pride, or joy, but…fear, he wondered? She glanced away, to the east. "I who have braved the end of one world, and who have been at the birth of another? I who survived flood and fire, betrayal most foul, and trickery abhorrent? I, who have walked between the worlds, and heard the whispers beyond the pool that so many pass through?" She returned her gaze to Richard, and in whisper, uttered, "you know nothing of Hell."

"Maybe not. But there's no doubt a special place waiting for you there."

For a moment, the woman looked ready to strike him. But only for a moment, as she grabbed his shoulder, and with one hand, lifted him to his feet. He gritted, as his bleeding limbs protested the unwanted movement. But to his simultaneous relief and horror, he saw a horse being led his way. Relief, for the mere presence of a mount. Horror, in that one of the woman's monsters was leading it.

"Ride hard, son of Adam," the woman murmured. "You should be able to make it to Anvard by tomorrow morn if you do not linger."

Richard, ignoring the beating of his heart and the pain from his limbs, managed to mount the steed. Mounted as he was, he was only slightly taller than the witch, and just as tall as the bull-headed creature that had walked up to her. One with a giant serrated axe stained with blood.

"Ride, oh prince, ride," said the woman. "And tell your father that Jadis the First, Queen of Narnia, Empress of the Lone Islands, and Last Daughter of Charn, sends her regards."

Richard remained silent. He took awhile to remember the woman's face. The cold, cruel face, that he knew would haunt his dreams until his dying day.

"Go," she said.

Silently, he did so. Riding through the valley of death that the bodies of his men had left for him. Away from the jeers and cackles of Jadis's army, and the roar of the bull-headed beast, as it brought down its axe, shattering Sir Celtic's stony form. Away from the head of his brother, his eyes still upward, at sky torn between blue and grey.

Riding forever southward, away from winter's touch.

* * *

_A/N_

_So, is it just me, or is Archenland kind of useless in the series? _

_Narnia's conquered by Jadis? Does nothing. Narnia's conquered by Telmarines? Does nothing. Narnia's conquered by Calmorenes? Does nothing. Y'know, considering that the Archenlanders ultimately have their ancestry in Narnia via Frank and Helen, you'd think they might have some lingering loyalty to their homeland? I mean, just saying._

_Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
